


Jagged Lines and Neon Prayers

by thebright1



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1980s, 80's Music, All the things that come with the 80s, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Coming of Age, Dismemberment, HIV/AIDS Crisis, M/M, Men in Eyeliner, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Period Typical Attitudes, Questioning Sexuality, Romance, Semi ripped from the headlines, Serial Killers, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24718522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebright1/pseuds/thebright1
Summary: It's the 1980s! A serial killer is playing God and turning London's clubs into a hunting ground, in preparation for "Armageddon". Apparently, it's up to a "journalist" and a "uni student" to stop it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	Jagged Lines and Neon Prayers

**Author's Note:**

> I hoped to have this finished by my posting date, so I could post on a schedule, but I took a metaphorical kick to the teeth and I'm having a hard time bouncing back. I've got an outline, but sometimes these characters just do what they want, so mind the tags, because I'm not sure of everything that will go down. 
> 
> Because it's an 80s club AU, lots of music will be mentioned. I have started a playlist for this story on Spotify and you can find it [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2MK0vrSqdZqkc0ZOLKCL0f?si=kCn84cejRNWDxXROCpko8Q).
> 
> I will add songs to the list as I post chapters. 
> 
> The title comes from the Scissor Sisters song "Somewhere", which is not an 80's song, but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

_ It’s so wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Can’t they see how much this will hurt us? Can’t they understand the pain they’re causing? They’re oblivious, completely ignorant. It can only be selfishness. Self-centeredness. How can they be so insensitive to the feelings of others? I will educate them.  _

* * *

October 15, 1981

Crowley makes a split second decision that will change his entire life. He pushes the DJ aside, grabs the microphone from his hand as the chorus of “Tainted Love” dies down. “Hello? Yes, hello, patrons of Heaven, my name is Anthony J. Crowley, I’m a reporter, and I’m looking for anybody who knew a man named Duke Hastur. He was a tall skinny bloke, had blonde hair, very dark eyes, would have been in here last Thursday, wearing-”

The microphone is ripped from his hands by a very tall man twice Crowley’s width. His neck is thicker than the fleshiest part of Crowley’s thigh (which isn’t saying much, because he’s always been a very skinny guy, after all). Crowley recognizes him and smiles, “Hello!” The very tall, very wide man in the black tanktop and ripped jeans does not smile back and Crowley realizes belatedly that this is the same bouncer who pushed him off the stool down in the Cellar Bar when he’d been flashing around Hastur’s picture and interrupting the amorous goings-on in the hallway. Crowley reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out his reporter’s badge, brandishing it like a shield. “I am a reporter!” The bouncer grabs his arm roughly, ignoring the badge. “Did you happen to know Duke Hastur?” 

* * *

Azi looks at the queue lined up to get inside the nightclub and groans. “Agnes,” he whines, “can’t we just go to one of the other clubs? Or get a snack? I’m starving.” 

“No,” Agnes insists. She adjusts the lace cravat she has tied around Azi’s neck, and uses it to tug him towards the end of the line. “We will get in, we look great!” 

Azi does think he looks great. He thinks Agnes looks great, too– the backless, gold lame minidress accentuates her curves, although given the type of club they’re trying to get into, he doesn’t think that is going to make much of a difference. He’s not concerned that they won’t get in . . . he’d put this ensemble together for himself-- fitted black trousers, a white shirt with puffy sleeves and voluminous folds of lace and ruffles at the neck and wrists. He had even done his own eyeliner, although Agnes helped him with the eyeshadow and blush. Between living in Soho with his parents and taking theater classes in Uni he had picked up some things. Most importantly: the ability to not be ashamed of going out ‘in costume’ as it were. 

The queue stretches through the turnstiles and then loops in front of the club entrance. He and Agnes join it about twenty feet back from the main doors. Agnes whips open her compact and pulls at her topknot a few times with bright pink lacquered nails before slipping it back into her clutch. She delicately spits her spearmint gum into a gum wrapper, and then just as delicately takes out another piece and replaces it in her mouth. Azi snorts. “You should just have the cigarette, my dear.” 

She frowns. “No way. I am quitting for good this time.”

Azi rolls his eyes. “I refuse to be cajoled into going on any kind of diet with you so you can get rid of the quarter stone you gain.”

Agnes makes a face. “I won’t need you to, because I’m not gaining anything this time. I had one of my special feelings about it.” 

Azi raises an eyebrow. “I thought you only got your special feelings about things that were actually important.” 

“This is important to me!” she insists. “I looked at the cigarette and then I saw a pack of this spearmint gum and I knew this was what I should do.” 

The line moves and Agnes takes a few halting steps forward, tottering on her heels. She reaches down to tug at her black fishnet stockings which puddle a bit at her ankles. “These blasted things! I should have gotten a smaller size.” 

They’re closer to the club door now. Azi watches as it opens, spilling out a few men that look like they belong in a 19th century romance novel. They are hanging on each other and laughing. Azi feels a pang of longing. He’d had a friend like that once. 

Agnes looks up from adjusting her stockings and sees the look on his face. “Oh no,” she says vehemently. “No, no, no, Azi, there will not be any tears over stupid Mickey tonight! She’s a right cunt, and you are not going to be sad on your birthday!” Agnes pats his cheek. “Also, you’ll ruin your makeup and I spent too long on that eyeshadow for that bint to go and ruin it.”

His lip wobbles a bit, and he swallows hard past the lump in his throat. “Right, you said.” He sniffs. “Gene Clifton and Colm Wilkinson wouldn’t cry on their birthdays.” 

She puts her arms around his neck and gives him a hug. “You said you liked dancing,” she says as she pulls back. The line shuffles forward, and she gingerly walks backward in her heels, grabbing his hands and pulling him forward with her. “This is the best place for it!” 

Azi gives her a worried frown, the two men forgotten. “I do like dancing,” he agrees, “I’m just not sure I’ll like  _ this _ kind of dancing.” Azi thinks about the line dance he’d learned for their production of _ Oklahoma!  _ last term. Mickey had taught him that. She’d been his partner and his teacher before . . . everything else happened. 

“Dancing is dancing, mate,” she says. She bumps into the man behind her and turns, giving him an apologetic smile. The man in question, dressed in faded bellbottoms and a flannel tartan shirt nods his head and then looks at Azi over Agnes’s head. He raises his eyebrows twice and winks at him. Azi looks at the ground. 

“Why can’t we just go to The Witch Craft? There’s never a line like this there!” 

Agnes rolls her eyes. “That’s exactly why we’re  _ not _ going to the Craft tonight. Besides, there’s no dancing there, you said you wanted to learn. This is where we are supposed to be tonight, Azi. I had a feeling about it.” 

Azi feels his stomach rumble and thinks he was supposed to be out getting a curry- that’s what they’d told his parents they were up to tonight. And yes, he was legally an adult (past it now, happy birthday to him), and had been for a while, and they did trust him to be careful and responsible, but he knew they would be slightly mortified to know he was trying to get into a gay club. And probably very confused as to why  _ Agnes _ was trying to get in. 

“Is this one of your special feelings?” he asks, unamused. They shuffle forward a few more steps. Azi thinks this might not be so bad if the line keeps moving. They’re right outside the club doors (although still about 75th in line based on the way it snakes around the turnstiles) and he can hear strains of “Don’t Bring Me Down” thumping inside. It’s one of his favorites. This could be a lot of fun, he acknowledges. 

Agnes smiles. “Yes. You are exactly where you need to be tonight. I  _ know _ it.” 

* * *

Crowley cannot believe that he is being literally thrown out of Heaven. And to the crappiest most upbeat ELO song ever. Crowley  _ hates _ this fucking song. 

“Look, guys, this is all a big mistake,” he says. “I was just asking a couple of questions!” The bouncers ignore him completely as they push past people dancing, drinking, laughing. A couple of people pause to look at Crowley as he’s led through, their mouths quirked into grim schadenfreude smiles. He sneers at them. Crowley tucks his knees up as they hustle him to the door because this has happened to him before and he knows that the best way to land is to curl yourself into a tiny ball and try to roll. He’s glad he decided to wear the leather tonight. He’s been sweating and chafing in the trousers, but he’s glad for the protection they’ll offer when the bouncers throw him to the ground. “I wasn’t trying to offend anyone, I just wanted some information! I’m a reporter!” He waves his  _ Capital Gay _ credentials around in his hand uselessly. No one looks at them. 

The bouncers haul him to the door. One of them waves his hand to another thick necked enormous man who opens it. Crowley can see the line of people outside. He closes his eyes as he feels them swing him forward and then let go. He flies through the air and cringes, waiting for the ground to rise up and meet him. Instead, he finds himself landing on something soft which feels very much like another person. . . 

He opens his eyes. Oh. It  _ is _ another person. 

He has landed in a sprawl of limbs on top of another man, one of those guys who like to wear the ruffles and lace. Crowley is not much for the trappings, but he finds himself keenly interested in this bloke’s eyes because they are a very startling shade of blue, and the eyeliner makes them even more striking. These are eyes that could see into his soul, if he had one, he thinks. “Well,” he says, smiling at the young man. “That went down like a lead balloon.”

The man smiles at him and oh . .. oh that is interesting. Crowley feels his heart stutter in his chest at the sight of that beautiful smile.  _ Never felt that before, _ Crowley thinks. First time for everything, though, and this boy is so very, very pretty . . . Then the brows above those stunning blue eyes pull together and the man gasps for breath. Crowley puts his hands on either side of the man and lifts himself up gently. “You okay?” he asks. He slides his body to the left of the young man. He grabs his hand and helps him to sit up. The man is taking in great big lungfuls of air as if he’s never had air before now. He nods, but then coughs. His face beneath the makeup is red. 

A young woman comes forward and kneels on the ground next to them. Her hair is piled into an impossibly high topknot, and enormous gold hoops dangle from her ears. “Azi?” she asks. “Azi, did you bring your inhaler?” She looks slightly panicked. “Azi?” She is trying to get the man-- Azi-- to focus on her face, but he keeps turning to look at Crowley, his brows furrowed. Azi shakes his head, coughs, gasps again. 

Crowley is still holding the young man’s hand. He grips it tightly, and looks at him. “Azi, listen to me, just breathe slowly, all right? You just had the wind knocked out of you,” he looks over his shoulder and sees the bouncers still standing in front of the doors, “by some really fucking stupid wankers,” he says loudly. He turns back to Azi. “But you’re going to be all right, yeah? Just close your eyes and focus on one breath in, one breath out, in through your nose, out through your mouth, in through your nose, out through your mouth. . .” Azi looks in Crowley’s eyes and follows his directions. His breathing begins to come more easily. 

“Good job, Azi, good job,” the woman says. “You’re doing very well.” 

“Slow, steady, in through your nose, out through your mouth,” Crowley says. “There you are.” 

Azi nods, his lips turning up in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile. “Thank you,” he croaks. 

Crowley smiles lazily. “No need to thank me, I’m the one who was thrown into you.”

“Oh shit!” the woman says. “Azi, we’ve lost our place in the queue!” She stands and looks at the line that has closed up around them. “We’re going to have to start all the way back there!” 

Crowley stands as well. He’s still holding Azi’s hand, and tugs him to his feet. He lets his eyes read the man in front of him. Short hair so blonde and fair it’s nearly white. Lots of eye makeup and blush, and all those frills and ruffles. Very, very obviously gay. “Sorry about that,” he says. “I was . . . er . . “ He pauses, not quite sure what explanation he can give. “I’m a journalist,” he blurts. 

Azi’s eyes go wide. “Oh.” He yanks his hand back, pulling it down to his side. “Well, thank you, anyway, Agnes and I should be going. Agnes-”

Agnes has already started towards the end of the line, which is now a good forty feet behind them. “Azi, come on!” she calls. 

“I really am sorry,” Crowley says, “it’s one thing if they want to kick me out, it’s another thing to . . . hurt someone else. Wankers.” Crowley bends over and brushes the knees of his leather pants. When he stands up, Azi has his back turned and is already six feet away, hurrying towards Agnes, who is waving at him from the end of the line. Crowley sees him stop and cough. He takes a few quick strides, coming up alongside him. 

“Look, mate, are you all right?” he asks. 

Azi nods, coughs again. “Fine, fine.” He smiles weakly, and keeps moving. 

Crowley wants to keep talking to him and has no idea why. Well, all right, he has  _ something _ of an idea, but it is a strange idea that he’s never actually had before. “Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me.” 

Azi frowns again. “I’m sorry?” He looks bewildered by this conversation. 

“Kicking me out. I think they overreacted.”

“What did you do?”

“Just asked some questions!” Crowley exclaims. 

“What sorts of questions?’ 

“Azi!” Agnes calls again. There are people lining up behind her. Azi heads towards Agnes. Crowley follows. 

“I’m working on a story about a man who went missing last week. Do you come here often? Maybe you know him.” Crowley reaches into the pocket of his jacket, finds the worn photo Hastur’s aunt had given him when he had been to the old lady’s flat three nights ago. He holds it out to Azi, who doesn’t take it or even look at it.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know him. This is my first time here.” 

They’ve come upon Agnes now. She tilts her head at Crowley just a bit, and then smiles. She gives Azi a knowing look. Azi does not see it because he is staring firmly at the ground. She reaches out and takes the picture, still smiling at Crowley. “Azi would love to give you a call sometime,” she says, then she startles a bit when she looks down at the picture. Crowley can’t seem to do right by these two. “What is this?” 

“It’s a picture of Duke Hastur. He-”

“Who the bloody hell is Duke Hastur?”

“I’m a reporter-”

“I know that, you said it before. Why are you carrying this guy’s picture around?”

“He’s missing.” 

“Oh.” Agnes looks at the picture thoughtfully. The line shuffles ahead and she walks backwards, still holding the photo. She closes her eyes and scrunches her face up. Crowley looks over at Azi, trying to figure out what is going on. Azi is still staring at the ground. But at least he’s not coughing anymore like he’s about to keel over. Agnes opens her eyes and hands the photo back. “Can’t help you. I think he’s dead. Not getting anything off the photo.” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “What makes you think he’s dead?”

Azi speaks up, sighing heavily. “Agnes thinks she’s a psychic,” he says distastefully. He glances up at Crowley, then looks back down. “I’m sorry we can’t-”

“I don’t think I’m a psychic Azi Fell, I  _ am _ one!”

“Agnes!” Azi hisses. “He is a  _ reporter _ . Could you please  _ not _ use my full name?”

Oh, now Crowley understands what’s going on here. “Look, I’m-- I’m not here trying to expose anyone,” he says. “I don’t work for a Sunday paper, I’m not here trying to get an angle on anything or write any exposes. I’m just trying to find out a little more information on Duke Hastur. His aunt hasn’t seen him in almost a week, and she says it’s not like him.” 

Azi looks up at last. “I wish we could help you, Mr--”

“Crowley,” he says. He puts the photo back, swaps it for a business card. “AJ Crowley. I’m a freelancer for the  _ Capital Gay _ . Any and all sources are kept completely confidential.” He holds out the card. Azi does not reach for it. 

Azi nods brusquely. “Be that as it may, Mr. Crowley.”

“Just Crowley.” 

“Fine,  _ Crowley _ , be that as it may, this is the first time I have ever been to this club-”

“Have you been to any other gay clubs recently?” Crowley asks.

“No, I don’t make a habit of it.”

“What? You go around dressed like this all the time, then?” he says. He tugs at the sleeve of Azi’s shirt. 

Azi looks offended. “I  _ have _ standards.” 

Agnes watches them with a bemused look on her face. She reaches out and plucks Crowley’s business card from his hand. It disappears inside her clutch. “I don’t think Azi or I have seen this fellow Hastur, Crowley,” she says with a grin. “But if we do, we’ll let you know. Although, I have to tell you, I do think he’s dead. I don’t get any feeling off the picture at all.” 

“What kind of feeling do you get if the person in the picture is alive?” Crowley asks. 

Agnes pauses, considers. “It’s not foolproof, mind you, but it’s . . . like an aura almost. There’s an aura that surrounds them.” 

“Auras are supposed to follow people, not pictures” Azi mutters under his breath. Agnes ignores him.

“Like a halo, almost,” she says. She puts an arm around Azi. “Now this one here, Crowley, he’s a right angel. Golden aura surrounding that head of his.” The line crawls forward a few steps and they shuffle along. 

Crowley thinks this is utter bullshit, but he is willing to go along with it because . . . well, he’s been kicked out of Heaven, what else is he going to do with his night? A psychic is as good a lead as any. “And you don’t see an aura around Hastur’s picture?”

Agnes shakes her head. “No. I don’t get any feeling from him at all. And I think that can only mean he’s dead.” 

“And how often are your feelings right?” 

She raises an eyebrow at him. “I’m right every time.” 

Crowley looks over at Azi. “Do you think so, too, Azi?” 

Azi rolls his eyes. “Everyone is wrong at some point. Agnes has gotten lucky.” 

“You’ll regret ever saying that,” Agnes says. “You’ll regret it for the rest of your life.” Her voice sounds flat, like she’s speaking from very far away. Her tone sends a shiver down Crowley’s back, even sweating in the leather. The line shuffles forward. They are approaching the door and the scene of Crowley’s disgrace. 

“Right,” Crowley says, “well, thank you for your time, I don’t want to ruin any more of your night-”

“It’s his birthday,” Agnes jumps in. The flat tone is gone and she’s smiling once again. “Azi’s turned 21 today!”

Crowley nods, “Well, I think that calls for extraordinary amounts of alcohol. You two have a good night, and uh . . . sorry for falling on you.” He gives a half-hearted wave and departs. 

* * *

Three days later, Scotland Yard pulls a human torso from the Thames. Using the tattoos on the ribcage, they determine that it belongs to Duke Hastur. Crowley holds Hastur’s aunt’s hand as she cries and thinks about Agnes and her friend Azi Fell. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come find me [on tumblr](https://thebright1.tumblr.com/).


End file.
